Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:


Our noonday nap threw us both (the baby, me) onto the big bed, two tired creatures falling asleep, intimately close together, without hesitation. The other’s sleep is palpable even into the depth of one’s own sleep, a soundless bond, inextricably dense and robust, so that it’s surprising how quickly, almost suddenly this bond was dissolved upon awakening. Yes, there lies our baby, unaffected by my awakeness, simply setting me free from my sleep, as if he were none of my waking mind’s business. And so it is: there are two lying here on the bed, only one of them still asleep, the other awake, two who could only be flooded by each other in sleep because they are these two (and continue being two, regardless of whether they are both asleep, or only one of them, or both awake). I look at the gap between the dark red curtains, a shaft of light that seems to be lending stability to our darkened bedroom, and then at our baby’s pretty face. I have forgotten his age (I know it, of course, but the compulsion to know is asleep at the moment), and my own age has vanished too, all age is gone, all there is are two tired creatures, two people, and the only difference between the two of them is that they are not one. Content with this twoness, I turn over for another round of sleep.









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